by Stuart Woods
I don't believe you did, Stone said. Why do you think she's in Palm Beach?
I ran into a guy I know at dinner last night who was at the party in the Hamptons. He recognized her at LaGuardia yesterday. She was boarding a flight for Palm Beach.
You think she lives in Palm Beach?
I've no idea.
They drove down Park Avenue, then the driver made a U-turn and stopped in front of the Waldorf.
Oh, Shames said, reaching into an inside pocket and extracting an envelope. Here's some expense money.
Stone took the envelope. Thanks.
You can stay at my place down there, Shames said, handing him a card. Not in the house; the house is being renovated, and it's a complete mess.
Guest house? Stone asked.
No, my boat is moored out back. You can stay aboard. There's some crew aboard, I think. They'll get you settled. Anything else I can tell you?
I can't think of anything, Stone said. If you think of something, please call me.
Okay. You can reach me through my office. The number's on the other side of the card. I'll be down to Palm Beach in a few days. See you then. He offered Stone his hand, grabbed a ratty-looking overcoat from the front seat, got out of the car and walked into the Waldorf.
Where to, sir? the driver asked.
Stone gave him the address. I have to pack some clothes, then I guess we're going to Teterboro. Jesus, I didn't ask him where in Teterboro.
Atlantic Aviation, the driver replied.
Thanks, Stone said. He wished he'd had time to find Shames an overcoat. His had been awful.
He sat back in the seat and thought about his first move when he got to Palm Beach. All he could think of at the moment was to stop every thirty-ish brunette he saw and ask if her name was Liz and if she had had dinner in the Hamptons last weekend with an extremely tall geek. Stone sighed.
When he got home, Stone ran upstairs and started packing. He'd never been to Palm Beach before, but he assumed it would be warm, so he took tropical-weight suits and jackets. He thought about a dinner jacket and threw it in, just in case. He changed into a lightweight suit, took his bags back downstairs, opened the door and waved the driver to come and get them, then he went downstairs to his office. His secretary, Joan Robertson, was working at her desk.
Oh, good, you made it in, he said.
My husband drove me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have. Why are you wearing that suit? You'll freeze.
I'm off to Palm Beach.
Joan rolled her eyes. Just back from LA a couple of weeks ago, and now off to Florida. Why don't I ever get to go where it's warm?
Someday, he said. He looked into the envelope Thad Shames had given him; a thick stack of hundreds, at least ten thousand dollars. He counted off two thousand, stuck them in a pocket and tossed Joan the rest. Put this in the safe for hard times. He jotted down the address and phone number from Shames's card and handed it to her. This is where I'll be.
How long?
Who knows? No more than a few days, I hope.
Have fun. Oh, I almost forgot. She handed him a slip of paper. "A Mrs. Winston Harding the Third called this morning, wants to talk to you?
Stone looked at the paper. Who is she?
I've no idea. She sounds terribly upper class, though. She said she needed to talk to you about an important legal matter, and that you came highly recommended.
Did she say by whom?
Nope, but she sounds like money to me. I wouldn't waste any time getting back to her.
Stone stuffed the paper into a pocket. I'll call her from Palm Beach. He ran for the car.
At Teterboro, the car drove him up to the airstair door of a Gulf-stream V, and the driver carried his bags on and stowed them.
Mr. Barrington? a uniformed crewman asked.
That's me.
We're ready to taxi. Please find a seat and buckle up.
Stone chose from a dozen comfortable chairs and fastened his seat belt. As the airplane started to move, the young woman he'd seen in Shames's Four Seasons suite came out of a compartment and sat down near him.
Hi, she said. I'm Callie Hodges.
I'm Stone Barrington. They shook hands.
I heard you were coming to Palm Beach with us, she said.
Stone looked around the airplane. Who's 'us'?
The pilots and me. We're all that's aboard today.
What do you do for Thad? Stone asked.
I'm his chef and party planner. I pretty much go where he goes. I'll fix you some lunch after the seat belt sign goes off.
Thanks, I haven't eaten.
The big corporate jet taxied to runway 24, paused for a minute, then rolled onto the runway and started moving faster. Shortly, they were climbing into a thick overcast, and in less than five minutes they broke out into sunshine and clear skies.
Callie unbuckled her seat belt. Would you like something to drink before lunch?
A glass of wine with lunch will be fine.
Be right back. She disappeared into the galley.
Stone picked up a New York Times and leafed through it. On the front page of the business section there was an article about Shames's coming press conference, with speculation about the announcement.
Callie returned with a tray bearing a large lobster salad and a glass of white wine, then she went and got a tray for herself. I'll join you, if you don't mind.
Please do. How long have you worked for Thad?
A little over four years, she said. You?
Stone looked at his watch. Less than three hours. I'm doing a legal investigation for him.
Thad's a character, she said. You'll like working for him.
I hope so. I don't know much about him, except that he's in computer software, in a pretty big way, I gather.
She smiled. A pretty big way, yes. The last Forbes 400 put his net worth at five point eight billion dollars.
Stone blinked. He had spent a lot of time around the rich, but not that rich. So this new venture of his is a pretty big deal, then?
I hope so, she said, because I've got a nice little bundle of stock options.
So what's it like, working for the superrich?
Insane, she said, but I've gotten used to Thad's quirks.
He has a lot of them?
Thad is all quirk, she laughed. The superrich are one thing, but the newly superrich are something else entirely. Thad's a big child, really, and he's grown accustomed to instant gratification. Whatever you're doing for him, my advice is to do it in a hurry.
I'll try, Stone said. The salad is delicious; wonderful dressing.
Thank you, kind sir.
Have you spent a lot of time in Palm Beach?
Oh, yes. Thad's had his place there for a couple of years, and he's mostly back and forth from there to New York. Of course, the house has been under construction for all that time, so we live on the boat.
That's what he told me.
You're staying aboard, then?
I am.
Good. I'll cook you dinner tonight.
Why don't I take you out? Stone asked. I should get to know the lay of the land.
I'd love that.
Book us at some place you like.
Will do. She turned her attention to her lunch.
She was very attractive, Stone thought. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, slender, a blond ponytail, nice tan. He finished his lunch and she took their trays away.
Is there a phone on the airplane? he asked her.
In the arm of your chair, she said. It's a satellite phone, but it works like a cell phone. She headed for the galley.
Stone dug the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Mrs. Winston Harding III, in the 561 area code. Where was that? He dialed the number.
Hello, a low female voice said immediately.
May I speak with Mrs. Winston Harding, please? My name is Stone Barrington.
Oh, Mr. Barrington, this is Mrs. Harding. How good of you to ring me back so promptly. You sound a little fu
nny. Are you in a car?
In an airplane, Stone said. Tell me, where is the five-six-one area code?
Palm Beach, Florida, she said.
Oh. Oddly enough, that's where I'm flying to.
How convenient, she said. I wonder if we might meet while you're here? I'm in need of some very good legal counsel.
Of course. Who recommended me, may I ask?
No one, really. It was something I read about you once. Let's have lunch tomorrow. Do you know a restaurant called Renato's?
No, this will be my first visit to Palm Beach.
It's in the heart of town, in a little cul de sac off Worth Avenue, right across the street from the Everglades Club. Anyone can tell you.
I expect I can find it.
Twelve-thirty, then, in the garden?
Fine. How will I recognize you?
I'll recognize you, she said. See you tomorrow. She hung up.
Stone replaced the phone in the arm of the chair. Winston Harding. Sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn't place the man. Hard to tell much about Mrs. Harding from her voice, even her age. He pictured her as in her fifties, but she could be younger, he supposed. Or older.
He settled back into his chair and returned his attention to the Times. Soon, he dozed off.
Stone was wakened by a slight jar and the screech of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane's windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.
You slept very well, Callie said. She was back in her seat.
It's one of the things I do best, he replied.
I guess I'll have to figure out the other things for myself, she said, with a little smile.
The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.
Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.
Hop in, Callie said.
Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.
Quite a difference from New York, huh? Callie said.
Where are we now? Stone asked.
We're in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we'll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn't too screwed up on the bridge. They're replacing it, and it's taking forever.
Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.
This your first trip here? she asked.
Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I've ever been in Florida is Miami twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.
She looked at him. What kind of lawyer are you?
One who used to be a cop.
She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. Thought I'd give you a little tour on the way to the house, she said. That's Mar a Lago over there the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He's turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach. She turned down Worth Avenue. This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach, she said. All the famous stores are here. They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.
Where is the Everglades Club? he asked.
Down at the end. Why do you ask?
I have a lunch date for tomorrow at a place called Renato's, which is supposed to be across the street.
Here comes the Everglades Club on the left, she said, and on the right is a little alley full of shops, and Renato's is at the end.
What's the Everglades Club?
Palm Beach's most desirable club, or the snottiest, depending on your point of view.
And what is your point of view?
It's the snottiest. Not only are Jews not allowed as members, they can't even visit as guests, and I'm half-Jewish.
I didn't know that sort of thing still existed in this country.
You've led a sheltered life, she said. She turned left and began driving through a series of quiet streets, lined with large houses and sheltered by tropical vegetation.
This is beautiful, he said.
Certainly is. The most desirable houses are either on the beach or on the Inland Waterway, which in Palm Beach is called Lake Worth. Thad's place is on Lake Worth. It's more sheltered for the boat. Shortly, she turned the Jaguar through a large gate into a circular drive and stopped before a palazzo that seemed to have been airlifted from Venice. Here we are. Leave the luggage. Somebody will get it.
Stone followed her to the huge double front doors. She pushed and a door swung back to reveal a central hallway that ran straight through the house. The hall was a gallery, hung with large oils. Stone recognized a Turner.
Oh, good, she said. They've finished redoing the hall. She led Stone out the back door and into gorgeously planted gardens.
Stone looked back. You'd never know the house was under construction, he said.
The outside is all finished, now, so all the equipment and tools are inside. They passed through the gardens and onto a broad lawn, beyond which Lake Worth gleamed in the sunlight.
Blocking most of the view, however, was a very large, very beautiful old yacht.
That's Toscana, Callie said.
She's glorious.
She was built in Italy in the thirties. Thad spent two years both restoring her to her original condition and almost invisibly modernizing every system on board.
How big is she?
Two hundred and twenty-two feet, but with only seven cabins, so everyone aboard can be comfortable. Thad gives me the smallest one, but that's bigger than the big cabins on lesser yachts.
A small Hispanic young man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt and shorts came down the gangplank to meet them.
Stone, this is Juanito, Toscana's chief steward. Juanito, this is Mr. Barrington.
Welcome aboard, Juanito said. Mr. Barrington is in cabin number two. Mr. Thad phoned to say he was coming.
I'll show him aboard, Callie said. Our luggage is in the Jag.
Juanito found a handcart and ran off toward the house.
Stone followed Callie into the main saloon, and it was as if they had stepped into a much earlier decade. My God, he said, it might have been launched yesterday.
Yes, Thad did a really good job on the restoration. Come on, I'll show you to your cabin. Thad has given you the best one, after the master stateroom. She led the way down a central passage off the saloon and opened a heavy mahogany door on the starboard side. Here you are.
Stone stepped into a cabin paneled in mahogany, with white painted trim. There was a carved marble fireplace on one side of the room, with a sofa and a pair of chairs facing, and behind them, a large bed with a canopy, trimmed in nautical-looking fabric. Out the large porthole was a view of the water. Marvelous, he said.
Your bath is in here, Callie said, switching on a light. More marble, with a large tub and a separate shower stall. I've never seen anything like this vessel, Stone said, although I once sank a yacht nearly as large.
Run her on the rocks?
No, I was just angry with her owner.
Callie looked at him, unsure whether he was serious. I wouldn't mention that to Thad, she said. You might make him nervous.
Juanito appeared with Stone's luggage. May I unpack for you, Mr. Barrington?
Thank you, Juanito, yes.
And would you like your suits pressed?
Thank you again.
My cabin is down the hall, Callie said, grabbing the single small duffel that had accompanied her. Why don't you poke around, take a look at Toscana? Dinner at eight all right? I booked from the airplane.
Fine.
How are we dressing?
It's an elegant place, and the crowd will be elegantly dressed, at least, as they define elegant.
See you a little before eight, Stone said. He left Juanito to do his work and began to explore the big yacht. There were two other cabins on the starboard side, and another three on the port side. Stone took a narrow staircase up a deck and emerged under a broad awning covering an expanse of teak decking. The superstructure was forward, and a set of doors led to what he suspected was the master stateroom. He took another staircase and came to the bridge, where a man in his mid-thirties, wearing the same white uniform as Juanito, except with more stripes on his shoulder boards, was sitting at the chart table.
G'day, the young man said with an Australian twang. You must be Mr. Barrington.
That's right, Stone said, offering his hand.
I'm Gary Stringfellow, the captain, he said.
Good to meet you.
Juanito show you to your cabin?
Yes, I'm just having a look around. This is quite some bridge. It was all mahogany and brass.
Yes. In the rebuilding, we tried to keep it much as it was when the yacht was built, except, of course, we have every piece of modern gear known to man.
I can see that.
Wander at will, Gary said. I have some work to do. Just let Juanito know if you need anything.
Thanks, I will. Stone continued his tour, working his way forward to the stem, then aft to a broad sundeck, where he shucked off his coat, loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair.
Juanito appeared, as if by magic, bearing a silver tray and a frosty glass. I thought you might like a gin and tonic, he said.
Thank you, Juanito. You're psychic. Stone took the drink, and Juanito disappeared, only to return a moment later with a cordless phone.
A call for you, Mr. Barrington, he said.
Stone accepted the instrument. Hello?
If's Bill. How was your flight?
You're full of surprises, Bill, I'll give you that.
I had meant to brief you before you met Thad, but there was no time. I take it you understand his problem?
Yes, it's sort of like being back in high school the geek wants to date the beauty queen.
Thad is impulsive, but he takes these things seriously. Do the best job for him you can, and it will react to your benefit.
It already has, Stone said. After all, I'm sitting on a yacht in Palm Beach with a gin and tonic frozen to my fist, while you're in New York, freezing your ass off.
